


Don't cry mercy (There's too much pain to come)

by WolfeyKitten



Series: as many times as it takes [1]
Category: Amadeus (1984), Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mentions of religion, Not Beta Read, Specifically Catholicism, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love, actually not even proof read because im jared 19, literally none of this is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfeyKitten/pseuds/WolfeyKitten
Summary: There are few who share their miserable curse. Rarely, there are two individuals born into a world devoid of color. Two halves of a whole set. Two people who cannot live without the other. They know the other by their willing touch, a touch which fills the world with color. Salieri cannot understand how so many can see this as a blessing.Or:Three times Mozart touches Salieri, and the one time Salieri finally touches back.
Relationships: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri
Series: as many times as it takes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791937
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Don't cry mercy (There's too much pain to come)

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, this is a bastard hybrid of the Musical and the 1984 movie. There are aspects I love of both! Also, Constanze is very well loved in my heart, I HAVE to kin, but she isn't in this one. Wolfie was too focused on trying to find his soulmate.  
> Finally, for the record I want to say that I don't think Salieri was a mediocre composer, he was talented in his own right. Of course, this iteration, like many others, has a little impostor syndrome.  
> (Title from Mercy by Hurts)

Mozart took, and took, and took. 

As if it were not enough to leave Salieri churning in his mind in the wake of his concerto, as if his work was not completed when the ribbons of Mozart’s staves strangled his heart, that insufferable, immature, callous composer  _ had  _ to force a new kind of normal into Salieri’s charmingly static status quo. 

When Mozart touched him for the first time, Salieri already knew that he was woefully beguiled by Mozart’s melodic lure. When Mozart touched him for the first time… everything changed. 

They were at a party. Viennese high society flaunted their ostentatious displays of pretension all around them. The upper cultural crust shared court gossip and over-dignified laughs while Salieri kept mostly to himself. He understood his role, he needed to attend these soirees to maintain his carefully cultivated status. It was part of his routine, a symptom of his position, another of his precious normalities that Mozart dared to corrupt with his presence. Of course the inexperienced little upstart had found his way into a party such as this. He had the audacious capacity to wiggle his way into Salieri’s tightening chest, so of course his music carried him into the hearts of the court members. 

He drew a crowd, just as he always did. He was boisterous and loud, and women couldn’t seem to keep their hands off of him. Of course, Mozart was famed for being the touchy-feely type. It was no secret that he was one of the few cursed bastards resigned in servitude to fate. Mozart made it public knowledge that he was searching for his soulmate, unlike Salieri… who made sure that the world would never know that he saw only in monochrome. 

If one were normal, if one were  _ lucky…  _ they spent their life basking in the color that painted all of God’s creation. If not, they spent their life searching for the one who could make them whole, and they would navigate a colorless world until they willingly touch their fated partner. Salieri clenched his teeth as he watched Mozart reach out to the women who surrounded him as if any of them could be his. He pretended not to watch as they played games that gave him an excuse to kiss them. 

He skirted the edge of this childish game that soiled the sanctity of his periphery, but getting too close was already a mistake Salieri had already made when it came to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The other crashed unceremoniously into him as he grew too frivolous in his game, and as he steadied himself with his hands on Salieri’s chest, the world burst into vibrant color. 

Vibrant, joyful,  _ excruciating  _ color. Salieri ripped himself away from Mozart’s accursed touch. The colors exploded around him, abrading his eyes painfully. He could not close them, for that would mean tearing away from the shocking new details. When fight or flight kicks in, it would be dangerous to look away. 

Amongst his spinning head, Salieri’s eyes were eventually able to settle back onto Mozart’s swaying frame. What felt like far too long must only have taken place in a second, because Mozart didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. He also didn’t seem to notice the swath of new textures that unfolded in Salieri's world. 

Right, Mozart had willingly touched him, but Salieri had made no move to reciprocate that touch. If anything, Mozart merely looked rejected at Salieri’s sudden aversion. When Mozart stepped forward as if to lay a consoling hand on his elbow, Salieri took a fearful step back. Eyes that normally poured over music on a page were suddenly reading the notes of Mozart’s face in a way he had never seen before, and there was a part of it that frightened him. Rose tint on Mozart’s cheeks faded into view with each new millisecond he observed. Was he embarrassed, or simply flushed with alcohol? His eyes gained depth and dimension when they gained color, and the color of his shaggy hair became more easily distinguishable from the gaudy wig that sat haphazardly atop his head. His eyes darted anxiously across Mozart’s appearance, but still, the other seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary. 

Mozart flashed a smile. Salieri could hardly bear to look at it. “What is the matter, Maestro? You needn’t play our game if it doesn’t please you, but wouldn’t it be so much fun?” He reached toward Salieri’s wrist as if to urge him into the game, but Salieri pulled it away, his lips parted in the barest shock. Mozart’s smile only grew ever wider, ever more radiant. “Ah, I can tell you have no soulmate, or you would be more willing to touch. Hah! It is your loss, Mastro.” He waved dismissively as he returned to his game, and Salieri was left to wonder if he was talking about the game of the soulmate. 

It had to be the game. As he turned away from that brilliant sun, his hands laid upon his own chest the way Mozart’s had lain just moments before, he knew that soulmates were nothing more than a curse.

* * *

He laced his fingers through his own fair locks, alone in his studio, his mediocre symphonies stretched hauntingly across his writing desk. The only light came from the weak flame that flickered threateningly from the corner of his eye. Dim light allowed for fewer colors to seep their way into Salieri’s line of sight, reminding him of the wretched truth. 

Mozart was his soulmate. Mozart, garish and vulgar, who stole his limelight and trampled his inferior works beneath his feet with all of the grace of a blunderous and ungainly animal. Mozart, who’s measures and motifs choked his heart, who strung notes along the page like stars in the sky and spun delicate diminuendos that echoed the crescendos in Salieri’s chest… Even without color, Mozart’s music was able to convey a devastatingly full range of human emotion, so what was Salieri’s excuse? Though he never hid behind his colorblindness publicly, he couldn’t help but blame his insecurities on his limited perception of the world, but Mozart needed no such excuse. Imagine what he could do with color. 

Salieri didn’t have to find out. He didn’t have to allow himself to willingly lay a touch upon the other composer. Mozart never had to know that Salieri was his soulmate, they’d never have to face that wretched reality.

* * *

No matter how long they knew each other, avoiding Mozart’s touch was much easier said than done. The man made it nearly impossible to hold his arms politely at his sides. It was as if every movement, every demure gesture, every cheeky look was inviting Salieri’s touch. When Salieri watched him from the back of the empty theater, the dancing of Mozart’s arms setting the pace for his symphony’s instruments, he imagined his arms wrapping gently around that slender waist. When he watched his fingers make nimble keystrokes at the piano, his hands longed to turn those slender fingers over in his palm until he had memorized each unique crevice. 

When Salieri sat at the Piano and Mozart lay languidly atop its glossy cover, Salieri had to assign the thoughts of caressing his features to the back of his mind. His own fingers drew over the keys as Mozart’s threatened to brush his, his arm draped lazily over the top of the piano as he faintly traced the movements. Salieri’s eyes ticked up to search for Mozart’s, but the other’s gaze was locked thoroughly on the movements across the keys below him. Salieri stopped playing, and Mozart snapped out of his trance, the music that once elevated him letting him crash sordidly to the ground. Mozart’s eyes dashed up to meet with Salieri’s, a look of shock in his rich brown gaze. Salieri lingered on the dimmession behind them, something new to him when he gained the ability to see differences in the most subtle changes in hue. He remembered that Mozart boasted no such ability, and he couldn’t decide whether he relished that or not. 

“Don’t stop, Maestro. Don’t give me the opportunity to finish it in my head.” He let out a laugh, that terrible, braying laugh. “The sounds in my head will be so well-composed that the finished piece will sound terribly unfinished when you finally do play it.” 

Salieri’s hands tensed, and he remembered how he detested Mozart’s teasing. As per request, he lay his fingers back down atop the ivory keys and finished the original piece, watching as Mozart’s eyelids fluttered closed as he carefully considered the music. He studied the quirks of his expression, and when his eyebrows knit ever-so-subtly inward, his fingers paused once again. 

“I am certain it would sound better if you were not poised atop the cover. You dampen the sound,” he pointed out. 

Mozart hummed, but made no move to comply. “Hm, nonsense. I am accounting for it. Play the last measure once more, but finish with an A minor this time?” 

Salieri huffed indignantly. “You will coach the court composer, but make no time for pupils of your own?” 

Mozart rolled his eyes. “Play it, for me. I want to hear its sound from your fingertips.” 

Something about the way Mozart addressed him filled him with the desire to humor the other composer. He played the few notes that Mozart pulled from his arrangement and when an A minor was indeed a more appropriate fit, his jaw clenched in painful frustration. He had seen Mozart’s original copies, and they lacked even a single corrective mark. How was it that every measure that came from his mind bled onto the page perfectly composed? How come every correction was superior to his original work? And how could Mozart, this idiot savant, lay so stupidly on top of Salieri’s piano without a care for the way he tore the man apart? 

Mozart hummed in satisfaction, and Salieri wondered if a punch would be considered a willing touch. 

“Don’t be so tense, Signore. You are making the sound all crunchy.” Salieri rapped the next few measures with harsh fingers. 

“I didn’t realize an invitation to listen to my newest composition included free advice from the famed Herr Mozart himself. How lucky I am.” 

Mozart could clearly sense the malice in his tone, because he let out another braying laugh. “Oh please, Maestro, you know you are my dearest friend. I will offer you anything for free.” 

His dearest friend, hm? Salieri’s mouth grew bitter. “I hope that’s not the impression of our relationship I’ve given you.” 

Mozart smiled. “Of course not. It is clear as day that you don’t like me. But that look in your eyes when you hear the music… that’s what makes me bearable.” 

Salieri opened his mouth to protest, but Mozart silenced him. “Ahpupup! No no, I know it to be true.” He looked completely unbothered by the assertion. “Please, don’t stop playing, Maestro.” 

Salieri hadn’t even realized when his fingers had ceased to travel the keys, but he couldn’t start again. His words were lost, and he examined the keys instead. 

“They’re not completely white, right? They’re a little off?” The question shocked Salieri, and his eyes shot up to meet Mozart’s, but he once again averted his gaze. “People say they’re white, the keys. But they obviously aren’t, I know white when I see it. So if they aren’t completely white, then what color betrays its purity?” 

Salieri swallowed. “They’re Ivory.” 

“That’s what they’re made of, but what  _ color  _ does that make them?” 

Salieri played a chord. “What does it matter if you can’t see it? If you can’t see the color that I use to describe it?” 

Mozart shrugged. “If you don’t tell me, then how do I know you can see it at all?” 

Salieri prickled, his voice going soft. “I can see them.” 

“You’ve always been able to see them?” 

Now it was Salieri’s turn to avoid his gaze. He swallowed. “Yes, of course. My entire life.” 

Mozart eyed him suspiciously. The hand that already hovered near the keys reached further to gently brush the other’s, only for Salieri to rip his hand away. 

“If that is true, then why do you flinch away? What are you afraid of?” 

Salieri distracted himself with a few concordant sounds. “You once told me that my aversion to touch was evidence that I had no soulmate,” Salieri said bitterly. 

“Did I say that? I couldn’t have meant it.” Mozart rolled over atop the piano so that his head fell back over the front and his shaggy blond hair nearly reached Salieri’s fingers. His bright brown eyes looked up into Salieri’s, and for a moment he wanted to touch him just so that he could experience the range of colors that really sat inside an iris. Even when he looked at Mozart, a man he was  _ sure  _ he hated, his heart leapt over the sheer number of hues that could be hidden in those brilliant brown eyes. He exhaled a deep, shuddering breath and distracted his mind on the music, this time mindlessly letting his fingers fall upon the notes of Mozart’s work as if he had heard it so many times that his brain couldn’t help but connect it to his hands. 

When Mozart recognized the tune, he rolled back around so that he was right side up, his eyes tracking the motions of Salieri’s fingers. Salieri only paused when Mozart cleared his throat. 

His eyes darted up, his fingers stilling. “Just a tickle, that’s all. Please do not stop.” 

He did as instructed, but Mozart’s tickle turned into a coughing fit, and he had to finally excuse himself. As he watched the other go, Salieri sighed with relief, finally able to return to his work.

* * *

Salieri’s palms pressed against his eyes. There was only so much vibrancy he could take. By the time he opened his eyes again, they were watery and red. He was close to tearing them out of his head if it meant that he didn’t have to know the exact shades of Mozart’s hair, his eyes, his skin, his garish clothing. He wished he couldn’t see it, he wished he could hide behind the monochrome world he had been born into. He rubbed at his eyes so hard that they were raw with his efforts, but it never changed. Even with colors to inspire his works, they were just as mediocre as ever. What was he hiding behind now? When a tear ran down his cheek, he didn’t know if it was from rubbing his eyes or not. He rubbed that away, too.

* * *

That bow was so dramatic and eccentric that Salieri couldn’t help but feel like he was being mocked. “May I have this dance?” Mozart asked, his gaze directed as his feet since he was so low into his bow. His delicate hand was extended for Salieri to take. All he had to do was take it, and there was an element of his torment that would slip away. He was offered an easy escape from this dreadful secret, but he already knew he couldn’t take it. Having this secret be public was a far worse alternative… and of course the loud, arrogant Mozart would never let him hear the end of it. In fact, no one in Vienna would hear the end of it if Mozart found his soulmate. No one in all the world, even. 

His hands remained reservedly poised at his side as he ignored the invitation. Mozart’s soulmate. Even as his own music was dwarfed in comparison to the God-touched melodies of the man bowing before him, he still refused to resign himself to such a title. Salieri would be remembered for his music or nothing at all.

* * *

“Play Salieri,” he said.  _ Play Salieri,  _ he said. As if the last time Mozart played Salieri’s music it did not infuriate him, it was impossible not to slip the request in while Mozart was drunk enough not to recognize the voice of the man who composed the music he was about to disparage. 

“Oh, now that  _ is  _ a challenge,” Mozart said, his words only slurring ever-so-slightly. He put on a serious face intended to mock the composer he copied as his fingers danced over the keys. Behind his colorless, black masquerade mask, Salieri scowled. Mozart breathed refreshing life into Salieri’s admittedly dry piece. How was it that Mozart could play the very same notes he wrote, yet somehow spin a fantasy that much more vibrant? He clenched his fists angrily as his composition was sullied by those blasphemous fingers. The crowd watching erupted into joyous, drunken laughter as Mozart mocked his serious demeanor. Salieri couldn’t watch. He hated Mozart for all he’s done.

* * *

Mozart was desperate, but Salieri hardly understood why. If he wanted, Mozart could be the richest man in Vienna, but he cared for nothing but composition. Though, having the man prostrate himself on the floor in front of him was not an unwelcome sight. When Salieri offered to speak to the Emperor on his behalf, Mozart wallowed thankfully at his feet. He took Salieri’s hand in his before the other could react and laid kiss after kiss upon it. Salieri retracted his hand from Mozart’s grasp rather ungracefully. “Please, Herr Mozart. It is not a holy relic.” 

Mozart smiled and Salieri cursed. There was something about Mozart that made it hard to lie to him. There was an honest innocence in his demeanor, in his look, in that wide-eyed wondrous look with which he gazed upon an unforgiving Salieri, but the hatred was weaved so intrinsically into Salieri’s bones that manipulating Mozart had become second nature. Lying to him was only natural after everything he took.

* * *

Ever since that day at the party, the sight of color nauseated him. He clung to black like a lifeline. He decorated in monochrome just so he didn’t surround himself with dreadful color, in tepid and painful reminders of his fate. Even the subtlest of hues was reminiscent of Mozart, who opted to dress in glittering and ornate pigments that spanned the entire visible spectrum. Even if Mozart could  _ see  _ the chromaticity of his caricature, Salieri doubted he would change a thing about it. Clashing, flashy regalia just seemed so  _ him.  _

Even though soulmates were rare, there were rumors going around. They say if one dies, the other’s sight goes back to normal, back to a reality devoid of color. They speak of it as if it is a fate worse than death, but Salieri couldn’t imagine that as the case. To be back in his comfortable, colorless reality sounded blissful. That sinful desire spoke at the back of his brain, one that he had harbored before. There was a way out of this misery, there always had been. It was simply a question of whether or not he had the stomach for it. 

His eyes stared widely at nothing as his fingers creeped up to shield them, his head low and hunched inorganically over his writing desk. Enduring this miserable reality made killing Mozart sound blissfully easy.

* * *

Like a reaper, Salieri descended upon Mozart’s home. A death mass, to be performed at Mozart’s funeral, as if Salieri had composed it himself… he dropped the coin into Mozart’s hand, careful not to touch him even through a gloved hand. With all of his features drenched in a wretched black cloak, of course Mozart couldn’t recognize him. Mozart didn’t even know the hues of Salieri’s eyes, the only part of him showing.

Even as he commissioned the Requiem, he didn’t realize how sick Mozart had become. How could he? How could he recognize it in Mozart when he didn’t even notice it in himself?

* * *

In truth, no one had noticed  _ exactly  _ how ill Mozart had become. He hid it so well, like an unbending font of charm and charisma. If he smiled obtusely at everyone he greeted, how was anyone supposed to recognize the tell-tale signs? 

It wasn’t until he collapsed at one of his operas did everyone take notice. Feverish, sweating, and coughing, Salieri rushed forward with an urgency that surprised him. After all, if Mozart perished now, how could he finish the Requiem? The orders he barked got Mozart carried to his home with Salieri in tow, riding on the back of the carriage that delivered him to his bed. When he stepped into Mozart’s home, he wasn’t surprised to find that it was as garishly decorated as the man himself, and the colors made Salieri want to collapse alongside him. He watched as Mozart was lowered into his bed, and was the one that stayed after he ordered the others-- friends of Mozart’s who performed in his silly little vaudeville-- to leave. Why they bent to his authority was anyone’s guess. Maybe the relationship he had cultivated as Mozart’s “dearest friend” had been as convincing as he had hoped. 

Mozart looked as if he were drifting in and out of consciousness. When he saw Salieri, a pained smile overtook his sickly face. Salieri only watched as Mozart broke into a coughing fit, blood painting his palm as he did. He took a breath, deep, low, and strangled. Salieri could hear the painful, rasping undertone. 

Despite everything, Mozart still smiled. 

“You came out to see my opera,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

Salieri frowned. He hesitated for a breath, carefully weighing the consequences of his moves as if he were still playing chess with this dying man. Though he had lied and manipulated Mozart for the years they both worked in Vienna, there was one thing he was uncompromisingly truthful about. “I’ve never missed one of your operas,” he conceded quietly. He knew his face boasted that look, that same look that Mozart recognized years ago, that look that betrayed him. It was a look of unadulterated love, not for Mozart, but for his music. It was an emotion he resented, it is what made all of this that much more complicated. If he hated the music the same way he hated the man, the colors, the pain his mediocrity made him feel-- well, the way he tore down Mozart’s entire Viennese career wouldn’t have made him feel as hollow. 

Mozart looked away. “It was just a silly vaudeville.” 

He knew his face betrayed him.  _ No, nothing you’ve ever penned has been silly. Every note you string is phrased so sweetly, so sublimely. Every measure you compose like beautiful rapture, strangling the breath from my lungs in saccharine euphoria. You are the vessel of God’s light on Earth, and with your music, you pen his words.  _ When Mozart’s eyes met his once again, he smiled knowingly. 

Salieri’s throat felt dry, and his mouth tasted bitter. Watching Mozart struggle to breath, struggle to keep consciousness, something broke inside of him. He cautiously, carefully sat down on the bed in which his soulmate lay dying. 

Mozart looked up at him. “Forgive me, Signore.” 

Salieri’s face shifted into confusion. What could Mozart  _ possibly  _ concede? What could he apologize for? 

He continued. “I thought, somehow, you hated me. I thought you never cared for me at all.” 

Salieri swallowed the lump in his throat. It was true, but it hurt to hear Mozart utter it through a rasp. He always treated Salieri as if he were an easy friend, his greatest friend, though he always knew the truth. It was heartbreaking, and Salieri had to wonder if Mozart had ever had anyone else at all. He never thought that Mozart, slick with charisma, could ever have been  _ lonely.  _

Though they say that living without the other half of one’s soul could be incredibly taxing on the soul, but Salieri wouldn’t know about that. 

Salieri closed his eyes and breathed deeply before carefully, cautiously taking Mozart’s hand willingly into his own. 

When Mozart didn’t say a word, he opened his eyes to meet those rich, brown irises. 

Mozart looked on, his eyes only half-seeing. His jaw opened and closed, for once in his  _ wretched  _ life, he was speechless... but he refused to look away from Salieri. All of the things he could look at, all of the brazen colors that filled the room around them, and all he could stare at was the black and white of Salieri’s drab appearance. 

“Maestro, all this time?” He said, and Salieri should have felt grief. He couldn’t, not when Mozart’s words were so full of love. It only made him despicable. Mozart should be livid, he should hate Salieri for what he stole from him. He had the power to give Mozart the colors he always chased after, but he had refused… and Mozart should never be able to look at him with so much adoration. He couldn’t bear it. He looked away and nodded solemnly. “Since the beginning, nearly.” Mozart had the right to know. 

“Ha, I understand why you did not want me to know. I know that you do not love me the way that I love you, Antonio Salieri.” 

Salieri widened his eyes at the unexpected and heart-wrenching confession. That wasn’t at all what Salieri wanted to hear, and when Mozart uncurled the fist Salieri had not noticed he had been clenching, the revelation was made all the more melancholy. In his palm sat a bundle of bloodied white rose petals. 

Salieri almost felt sick at the cruelty of God. While soulmates were rare, Mozart’s disease was even rarer, and most thought it merely myth. Flowers that bloom in the victim’s heart, the seed planted there by God for the crime of unrequited love. He had cursed both of them more graphically than Salieri could have ever imagined. 

While Salieri gazed down at the petals, unable to utter a single sound, Mozart spoke again. “Ha, I never realized just how striking the blood would look against the white petals. Red. Red,” he repeated, as if trying to commit the shade to memory. They both knew it would be one of his last. The laugh he choked out was like a pale ghost of his typical annoying bray. “It shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is.” 

Salieri swallowed hard. “I never much cared for it myself.” 

Mozart laughed again, this time his laughter morphing into a painful coughing fit, revealing more blood and petals. “Of course not. I always thought you wore black because you didn’t know what it was like to only see in shades of it. Now I realize it was just because you’re boring.” 

He couldn’t tell him it was because colors reminded him of God’s abandonment of his soul, so he said nothing and squeezed Mozart’s hand a little tighter. The contact felt right, like their hands were meant to hold onto each other. Of course, they were. 

They both knew he was dying, but it was difficult for Mozart to take anything that seriously. Salieri was surprised when he let out a shaky sigh. “They say soulmates get another go. That they’ll always find eachother, no matter what life they’re in.” 

Salieri smiled, if only just by a hair. Maybe if this were another life, if they were different people, it really could have been different. “Then perhaps we will meet again some day, Herr Mozart.”

Mozart’s smile was growing weaker, and for the first time, Salieri realized that he wasn’t able to distinguish the colors in Mozart’s face, then his clothes, and when his eyes dragged across the bed, he realized that the colors were slipping from his vision. Panic rang throughout his chest like a fight or flight response. Mozart was dying. 

Though his thoughts should have been on the misery of losing his Heaven-ordained other half, the thought at the forefront of his mind was about the unfinished Requiem. 

“Herr Mozart,” he said, panic in his voice as the colors slipped away. 

It was too late. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was dead, and Salieri’s reality was plunged once again into a peaceful, colorless void. 

Why did it feel so hollow?

* * *

Was it truly the colors that drove him to madness, or was it the cacophony of his own heartbeat that let his relish Mozart’s downfall? Salieri thought he was falling apart before, but then he realized that he had not known  _ true  _ madness until after Mozart was gone. It wasn’t the colors. It wasn’t the colors, he knew this, because without them, he couldn’t go on. A year went by after Mozart’s death, and hated him more than ever. The world had no color, and Salieri frantically watched as his legacy was still overshadowed by a dead man’s achievements. 

Mozart took, and took, and took. 

Hung above everything else, strung there like an elevated set piece of one of their operas, was the quiet, miserable truth that Salieri had been the one to kill Mozart after all. It was unrequited love that killed him, it was by Salieri’s hand that he perished. He got his wish, so why did it feel so bitter? 

Mozart was dead. 

Mozart was dead, and his life was emptier than ever.

* * *

It is two years after the death of Mozart, and Salieri leaves a bundle of white roses at the unmarked grave. White was a color he could see as God made it, he could understand in its entirety. He was starting to forget the way blood-red looked against their pure hue.

* * *

It is ten years after the death of Mozart, and Salieri can’t understand why he can’t write music anymore. Mozart was gone, and with him, the candle of creativity was snuffed with a douter. He couldn’t publish what he wrote, he could only pour over Mozart’s unfinished Requiem and wonder how it would have sounded if it had been finished, if Salieri hadn’t killed Mozart himself. He didn’t dare play its notes. 

He wondered why he still left roses at the unmarked grave. He wondered if he was even leaving them in the right place.

* * *

It was thirty years after Mozart’s death, and Salieri tried to kill himself. He shouted his crimes to God, repentance bled from his throat as he begged for forgiveness. He had killed his soulmate, he had murdered his soulmate like his life had meant nothing, and he deserved the same. But of course, Antonio Salieri had never had a soulmate, everyone knew that. When the priest at the asylum asked him for his confession so that he may know the forgiveness of God, Salieri remarked that he didn’t need it. He cared only for the forgiveness of Mozart. 

He told his story anyways. He didn’t know if the priest ever believed a word of it. He had to, Salieri’s words were far too genuine, painful, regretful, and drenched in the most horrible sorrow. All of that love for Mozart's music had morphed into anguish, and all of that disdain for color had turned into unfulfillable longing. For the thirty years since his soulmate’s death, his life had been devoid of color. He had forgotten what they looked like. Most of them, at least. There were a few he could never forget. 

Thirty years after Mozart’s death, the self-proclaimed patron saint of mediocrity realized that even his own feelings had wallowed in second-rate subsistence. He had loved Mozart. He had loved Mozart, and his failure to understand those twisted feelings killed him. It killed him, and it stole the color from Salieri’s world. It stole the other half of his heart. Losing a soulmate was like losing half of yourself. Salieri thinks he was only half a man to begin with. Losing Mozart whittled him down to nearly nothing. 

He had loved Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He knew he wasn’t owed his forgiveness, but Mozart didn’t have room for resentment in such an innocent soul. He didn’t deserve his forgiveness. 

If Mozart would not punish him, he would do so himself. The patron saint of Mediocrity, beholden to Mozart in both his failure as an artist and failure as a soulmate, his monochromatic reality a reminder of everything he lost. None of it was Mozart’s fault, the blame had lain with him from the start. Though he didn’t deserve it, he clung to Mozart’s words. In another life, it would be different. In another life, they would meet again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, please comment or I'll die


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